Overpour
by industrialists
Summary: Ben Finn and Reaver have an uncomfortable dinner date. Look, when not knowing how to pronounce anything on the menu is the least of your concerns, you have a problem.


Circling the edge of an empty wine glass with his finger, Ben was beginning to think he'd been stood up. This was a fancy place, too, newly established, candles in the windows and not a peep of scurrying rat paws in the ceiling. Mightily upmarket for Bowerstone. And here he was, at a table with a view, alone. He was supposed to be meeting the king, and Page, but it was now twenty minutes past their agreed time and Ben was losing patience. Also losing patience were the waiters, Ben could tell from their shared glances and frankly indiscreet pointing. This would be bad for his reputation. He kept his gaze low and pretended to be very interested in the embroidery on his napkin.

A creak from the chair opposite. Finally. He glanced up and swore. Then, in an approximation of politeness, he said,

'You can't sit there, I'm waiting for people.'

Reaver gave a small shrug, pulling the chair out regardless and planting himself down on it.

'Good evening, Captain.'

Ben fought the strangling urge to bury his face in his hands. Now _this_ would be bad for his reputation.

'Did you not hear me or did you just ignore- I don't need to ask, actually. Hello, Reaver.'

He leaned backwards in his chair.

'What do you want?'

'Such enthusiasm. Actually, I thought I might be a tad charitable towards you tonight. You looked so lonely over there, I couldn't bear it.'

'I was fine, actually.'

'Nonsense. You are nowhere near clever enough to be admiring the craftsmanship of the tableware, and a man can only look at a fork for so long before it becomes clear it is a cry for help. You may thank me later.'

'I'll make a note of it,' Ben said. 'Which hole did you crawl out of, anyway? I didn't see you on my way in.'

Reaver waved a hand.

'Oh, I'm escorting some unusually well-to-do day-trippers from Brightwood. They want to do business, showed me some diamonds!' He laughed. 'Surprising, since I had previously assumed that the concept of an economy had not quite reached the area and its residents just traded buttons instead.'

Reaver glanced behind him, and sighed softly.

'Charming lot, full of useless information. Did you know, Benjamin, that there are seventy-three types of moss native to the Brightwood region? I certainly didn't.'

Ben peered over to a table occupied by around seven men, each holding a bottle of wine, sipping indiscriminately. Two of them were making a tower out of breadsticks.

'They're going to make a scene.' Ben said, sinking back into his seat.

'Yes, I had rather hoped they would be politely asked to leave the premises,' said Reaver. 'Oh never mind, I will be much happier when I am rid of them, but I will also be in possession of all of their money so I suppose I can endure for a moment longer. In the meantime, let me have a look at that wine list.'

'Oh, no you don't. You're not staying.' Ben said, propping his elbows rudely on the table.

'Sirs.' A member of the waitstaff had sidled over. 'Are you ready to order?'

There was a hint of desperation in his voice. Ben looked first at him, then at Reaver.

'Alright,' he said finally, 'but you're paying.'

'You look nice this evening, Finn,' said Reaver idly over the menu. 'Who are you impressing?'

Ben couldn't fault his taste, to be honest. He, Page, and the king didn't eat at fancy establishments often. Ben was a tavern-dweller at heart, fonder of gin than wine, didn't trust a place where fights started with whispers rather than fists. To say nothing of Page- outward displays of wealth made her uncomfortable and she found excess in dining a waste. But this was a treat, the king had said. _We don't get dressed up much, and this place is supposed to be good, and come on, it's almost my birthday_ (if by almost you mean it's at some point this year).

So Ben had made an effort.

'Everyone,' said Ben. 'What is that thing around your neck?'

Ben's suggestion of the house red wine had earned him a heartily derisive chuckle from Reaver, and as such he wasn't in the most complimentary of moods.

'This?' Reaver gestured to the scarf hanging about his shoulders. It was a burgundy thing, embroidered with a gaudy emblem featuring a frankly excessive three-skulls motif. 'Yes, I acquired it from an otherwise fashion-impaired fellow on a expedition in the south-east many years ago.' He cocked his head a fraction. 'Do you not like it?'

Ben sniffed. 'It's fine.' Then, 'Was that the same expedition you wrecked a mercenary guardship for blocking your view of the coast?'

As far as could be observed, Reaver had conducted one official raid of the waters south of Knothole Island, during which he purportedly fired upon the local mercenary band's ship because it was " _anchored vaguely in front of 'The Reaver' and spoiled the view of the coast. It has been questioned by some why Reaver did not simply sail forwards a bit. These questions have not been raised by anyone who actually knows anything about Reaver."_

 _Unabridged History of The Waters of Albion, Arenna Lawley, Page seventy-thr-_

'Someone's been doing their reading.' Reaver clucked his tongue.

Ben shrugged.

'You had your moments of interest.'

'I am disappointed for you, truly.' Reaver said. 'All that effort. You appear to have combed your hair. What a waste.'

'They've probably just been held up,' Ben scowled, scanning a little faster for the most expensive items on offer. He'd just have a starter before the others arrived, serves them right for making him wait.

'Of course.' Reaver's tone was enough to sink a little barb of rage into Ben, but then again, Reaver's voice could cut the atmosphere of a room at the first syllable. Ben exhaled softly, and lowered his menu.

'Do you think we're on good terms, or something?'

'Pardon?' said Reaver.

'Why are you here? At my table? Why? Do you think we're mates?'

'It's hardly as flattering as all that, you just appeared a better prospect than entertaining a gaggle of drunken farmers. But yes, I know you. Is that so odd?'

'You know we've had about three conversations, ever?' said Ben. Reaver leaned back in his seat a tad.

'Is that so? What a travesty. I assumed we were more familiar. Perhaps you are such a simple creature I feel that I know everything of interest about you.'

'I'm very interesting, thank you.' He fought the urge to mutter _more interesting than you_ , and he lost.

'Well we both know that isn't true.'

'Maybe fifty years ago, mate.'

Reaver inclined his head towards the waiter, who had been hovering nervously at the edge of their table for the best part of a minute.

'What will it be, Benjamin?'

Ben swallowed a thought, half-considered and messy, took a breath, and pointed to the most expensive starter he could somewhat guess the contents of. Honestly, who was this restaurant trying to impress? Ben was a clever man, a literate sort, and he was sure half the words on the menu were made up. He glanced at Reaver, measuring his reaction. He nodded slightly, which Ben took as acceptable evidence that he hadn't just ordered a plate of spleens.

'This is nice, isn't it?' said Reaver after the waiter had departed. 'How are we doing on our fourth conversation?'

Ben snorted. 'Yeah, fantastic. You haven't murdered anything yet! I'm impressed.'

He glanced towards the door, where the king and Page rudely weren't. Tell you something, Page wouldn't be chuffed with this. Last week, after a particularly fraught court session against Reaver, her fingers had twitched a full half-inch towards her pistol before she caught herself. Reaver had laughed, noted her displeasure, invited her to _try him_.

It was no secret that civility between Reaver and several other members of the monarch's retinue was maintained only by obligatory court decorum and the lingering whispers of a gunner of terrifying aptitude.

 _'Don't you despise him?'_ she had said to Ben later that evening, tapping her fingers loudly on the long table in the dim-lit kitchens. _'Yeah,_ ' Ben had said. _'Yeah.'_

'I want to ask you something,' said Ben after a moment.

'Of course you do.'

'I've read about you.'

'I am flattered. _Reaver on Reaver_ , I assume?'

Ben snorted. 'I tried, your prose is abysmal.'

'Excuse me?' said Reaver, in the most genuine expression of offense Ben had ever heard from him.

'Have you read it?' Ben continued. 'It's the most masturbatory, overwrought shite I've read in my life.'

'I _wrote_ it,' Reaver said. He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. 'It would be a shame to ruin that face of yours, but I'm considering it.'

Ben scoffed into his wine. 'You wouldn't.'

'Oh,' said Reaver. 'I see.'

There are two ways unpleasant conversational tension is broken. The first, and most dramatic, is if everyone involved suddenly and inexplicably dies. The second is the timely arrival of food. Like a merciful raincloud descending on a drought-blighted landscape, a waiter bustled through the kitchen doors and presented the starters, forcing the two to stop glowering at each other and thank him out of basic decency. Manners are seldom given enough credit. Ben had a look down at the plate in front of him.

'Is it supposed to look like that?'

'Mm?' Reaver glanced over. 'Yes, I suppose you are used to meat presented in a manner that would also function as a serviceable doorstop. Time to live a little, hm?'

Ben curled his lip. Arranged carefully on his plate were three slivers of some unidentified meat surrounded by what appeared to be a rockery comprised of crystallised gravy.

'So, you wished to ask me something?' Reaver offered.

Ben poked his fork into the meat and watched it pool juice for a moment.

'Do you ever-' he stopped. Poor phrasing. Childish. There was a light clink of metal against china as Reaver put his fork down and observed him.

'Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to, Benjamin.'

'I'm not.' He wasn't.

'Don't ask questions I'm not going to give you the answer to, then. What do you wish to know?'

'Aren't you getting a bit bored of all this?' Ben said. Hardly as nuanced as he'd like, but this was a rare thing, a rare situation. A passer-by could have mistaken the scene for an intimate dinner between friends.

'You'll have to specify,' Reaver said, filling his glass with wine (and not Ben's).

Ben was regretting this already.

'This...industry bollocks.'

'Oh, how rude-'

'You know what I mean,' he said, edging on exasperation. 'Gods, it's such a waste. Do you know how lucky you were?' There was an absence of detail in his question, a lack of elaboration, but shades of Heroes and adventure and piracy occupied the space between them - Bloodstone hung in the air, shared ground and unequal opportunities and fame - _do you know how lucky you were? Do you know what you've squandered?_

Reaver studied him from over his glass for a long moment.

'I see.' He waved a hand lazily. 'Luck is not in my vocabulary, Captain. Then again, you'd know nothing of it, I suppose. What, three dead brothers and parents too?'

'Don't, Reaver.' he said quietly.

'My affairs are none of your concern, Captain, no matter how desperately you wish otherwise.'

'Fine. You're getting fat, anyway.'

'That's more like it.'

Ben turned his attention to his plate, though not missing Reaver's well-measured gaze as he shifted back into his chair. Well done, Ben. This was nice. He poked at his gravy-rockery, which had an alarming structural integrity for a supposedly edible feature.

Behind him, someone politely cleared their throat. Less politely, Page said,

'What are you doing?'

'Oh, there you are!' Reaver chirped. Ben twisted in his seat to see his expected guests just shy of the table, boots tracking mud into the carpet. The king had a sizeable gash on the bridge of his nose, and Ben started to feel a bit bad.

'You were late,' Ben offered. The king nodded.

'Yeah, sorry about that. Bit of trouble on the road.'

'Are you alright? Your nose looks a bit dodgy.' said Ben.

'Oh, it's fine. Didn't want to make you wait. Funny story though. You'll laugh.' He chuckled, and then sort of trailed off, reading the atmosphere.

There were a few seconds of relative silence, discounting a couple of false starts from the king and the palpable heat from Page's stare shifting from Reaver to Ben.

'Well,' Reaver offered, 'I must be getting back to my guests.'

Ben glanced over to the table of Brightwood locals, who had apparently had their breadsticks confiscated and were attempting another architectural feat using individual grains of rice. He quirked an eyebrow at Reaver, who gave the smallest of frowns.

Standing swiftly, Reaver inclined his head and issued a polite ' _Your Majesty, Page,'_ and departed, because of course he did. Extricating himself from uncomfortable situations of his own creation was what Reaver did for fun. There are only so many ways to keep oneself amused after racking up one-hundred-plus years of life.

Ben pushed his plate away and sighed. After a moment, Page took a seat opposite him and the king followed suit, dragging a chair from an unoccupied table and planting it next to Ben.

'Are we going to talk about this?' the king said, reaching for a menu.

'No,' said Ben. 'I'd, er, rather not.'

'Alright,' Page said, with a small shrug, 'then you're paying.'


End file.
